


at the end of all things, here you are

by hesperia



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, F/M, Flash Forward
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-18
Updated: 2014-12-18
Packaged: 2018-03-02 00:46:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,278
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2793650
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hesperia/pseuds/hesperia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>One day, a long time from now, Myrcella and Robb meet again.</p>
            </blockquote>





	at the end of all things, here you are

The first time Myrcella Baratheon sees Robb Stark she recognizes him readily. Though he looks older than he had at Winterfell, there is a tiredness in his eyes, a sadness that only loss can put there. Myrcella wears it too. Her father, her uncle Renly, Ser Arys, Arianne. She absentmindedly touches the scarred flesh that runs down her face, from her temple to the curve of her jaw, a constant reminder of all that she lost that day. 

She wonders what her mother would think if she could see Myrcella now. Her mother had once been the most beautiful women in all the Seven Kingdoms, and how often had her uncle Tyrion told her she was even more beautiful still. _Not anymore..._ Myrcella thinks, bitterly. 

It seems strange to see Robb Stark in the loose breeches and flowing shirts of the East. He looks taller and leaner without all the fur around him, but he sticks out like a sore thumb in the crowd. Myrcella has to bite her lip to keep from laughing. He catches her eye in the crowd and the look he gives her; it is a look she has never had from a man before, not even from Trystane. She knows what it means, instinctively she feels it, deep in her belly and in a tight clutch in her chest. 

"You're a long way from home," she says to him, when he approaches. The sun of the South has brought out the red in his hair, a soft spattering of freckles across his nose where only the idea of them had been before.

"Is it so obvious?" he asks, and even if his looks and his height had not given him away, his Northern accent does. 

"Quite," she replies, with a small laugh. 

Once Myrcella had thought perhaps it would be the two of them their fathers would have betrothed. She thinks she would have been happy there in the North. Ned and Catelyn Stark would have been such lovely good-parents, and Robb's siblings would have been the kindest of good-brothers and good-sisters a girl could want. She thinks of them; all dead or lost now, much like her family. 

"I thought you were dead," she says, remorsefully, forgetting herself for a moment. Robb's face has the look of terror in it, and she sees his hand go to the pommel of his sword. 

"Who are you?" he demands, and she sees a glimpse of the battle commander he might have been, the King he had wished to be. Two women are standing at a nearby stall and glance over at them. Myrcella reaches out, a hand on Robb's arm, turning them both away from the women. 

The streets of Lys may be safer for either of them than anywhere in Westeros, but there were still little birds aflutter. "Not here," she says, and she motions for him to follow. He doesn’t move at first, and she can see him weighing his odds against her. 

"Don't think I won't run you through with my sword if you betray me," he says, and there's anger in his words. Myrcella knows he means what he says, something that comes from having made the mistake more than once. 

At the pleasure house she contemplates taking him through the front door, a tiny piece of her wanting to parade him past the other girls. He is tall and handsome, he is the kind of man that the other girls think of when they bed their customers. Myrcella knows it is too great a risk, and so she leads him around to the garden, through the back gate. 

The back stairs to her small room are steep and narrow, and her tiny bedchamber is not even half the size her chambers had been in King’s Landing. Even so, Myrcella doesn't mind it much; it is comfortable and has a window that lets in the fresh sea breeze on a good day. And it is her’s. 

Robb stands warily at the door, a hand still on his sword. "Who are you?" he asks again, though the agitation in his voice has lessened. 

She ignores his question for a moment, going to the wardrobe and pulling out one of the two bottles of Arbor wine she has left. It’s a dear commodity here, but there are nights when Myrcella longs for Westeros so badly she will take the comforts of home where she can find them.  "Wine from the Arbor," she says as she hands him a small glass. He sips it slowly, and for a moment when he smiles at the sweet taste of it, she sees the boy she once knew. 

"Have I changed so much since we met at Winterfell?" She asks, and she means it teasingly, though the scar often misconstrues her japes for self-pity.

He searches her face for some recognition, pauses when she catches his gaze. He may not see the resemblance in her face to that of a nine-year-old girl he met a very long time ago, but he will remember her eyes. She shares them with her father, and of all people, Robb Stark would not forget the Kingslayer. 

"Princess Myrcella?" He says her name as though he does not believe it, cannot believe they have found each other here, at the end of all things. 

Myrcella has not heard her name in 10 years, not her right name, and it fills the longing for her more than Arbor wine ever has.  "I'm not a princess anymore," she says quietly. “I'm just the high-born bastard of a Queen and her brother." 

"I'm not a King anymore either," he says, finishing his cup of wine. "If I ever was…" 

"How long have you been in Essos?" she asks as they sit on the edge of her bed. 

"Since the new century. I almost died half a dozen times on the ship here, but somehow I survived. I worked as a Sellsword in Braavos for awhile, before making my way down here."

"And what does a man who was once a King do in Lys?" she teases, raising an eyebrow suggestively. 

"It seems I have a head for sums," he says, with a wry smile but his face drops suddenly and he frowns. "This place...Myrcella...are you..." 

"A whore?' she finishes for him. 

"Are you?" 

"We do what we must to survive." 

"Myrcella..." 

"I'm still a maid," she blurts out, though she hadn't wanted to tell him, hadn't wanted it to come to that. She had wanted him to see her as a woman, to think her capable of taking her pleasure with whomever she liked. Instead, she feels just as young as she had all those years ago.

"How can you be a virgin and a whore?" 

Myrcella stands and refills her cup, draining it in one long pull before topping it up again. "That's what they like..." she says with a shrug. "They call it the Maiden's Cure...They just watch; they’re not allowed to touch."

They spend the rest of the evening drinking Myrcella's bottle of wine and eating the food that Myrcella brings up from the kitchen. When the darkest part of night approaches, Robb stands, laughing as he takes a moment to find his balance. 

"Thank you," he says, "It's been a long time since I was able to be Robb Stark, to let my guard down." They stand close to one another, and Myrcella realizes how easy it would be just to push up on her toes, to line her mouth to his. Robb must realize it too because he wets his bottom lip with his tongue, catching it between his teeth. 

"I understand, more than you know." 

"What's that saying? The enemy of my enemy is my friend?"

"I was never your enemy, Robb, believe me. I was a little girl who dreamed of being Lady of Winterfell one day, but I was shipped off to Dorne, and then I just became someone else's pawn." 

"You're not a little girl anymore," he says, and there's a strained roughness to his voice. Myrcella reaches out for his hands, her eyes never leaving his as she places them on her hips. "Myrcella..." 

"You should just kiss me, and stop being so damn honorable." 

Robb laughs, squeezing her hips, and dips his head down to capture her mouth. The kiss is chaste at first, and Myrcella takes his face in her hands, holding him to her as she opens her mouth and deepens their kiss, her tongue snaking its way into his mouth. Robb growls against her, nipping at her lip, and his mouth drags open and wet over the unmarred side of her face, biting at the sharp angle of her jaw. 

"Does it hurt?" he asks, and his hand leaves her hip to touch the scar along her other cheek, down on the side of her chin. 

"Not anymore..." She wears her hair to one side these days, tightly braided on the side of her head, hiding the scar where her ear used to be. "Does it bother you?" she asks, and he shakes his head. His hands go to his shirt, tugging at the laces as he pulls it over his head. 

"I have my scars," he says, and she does not expect the large jagged scar across the right side of his chest, nor the puckered and healed arrow wounds on his collarbone and shoulder. She also did not expect to find his chest so broad, nor his skin so soft and golden from the sun, the freckles on his shoulders even darker still. 

Myrcella reaches out to place her hands over scars on his chest, and beneath them she feels the strong, steady beat of his heart. "How did you survive this?" she asks, her finger tracing along the scars. 

"How did you?"

"I had to."

Robb kisses her again, long and slow and deep until Myrcella feels utterly breathless from it. She’s not sure if it's because of the kiss itself or the fact that she is kissing him after so many years of not knowing if she even had the right to miss him.

They kiss for a long time, and Myrcella claims every sweet corner of Robb's mouth as her own. She bites softly on his bottom lip, and he rewards her with a soft groan from the back of his throat, the same groan she gets when she grates her teeth over the curve of his ear. Robb too lets his mouth explore her body, kissing her neck and where it curves into her shoulder, but he never ventures further than her shoulders, his hands resting on her hips and lower back. 

"You can touch me," she says, holding her voice, because, for all the men who have watched her, Robb is the first to touch her. She takes his hand and places it on her breast. He touches her gently, kneading his hand on her breasts, rubbing his palm over her nipple and Myrcella inhales sharply at his touch. 

"Do you like this?" Robb asks, and Myrcella nods, finding it hard not to close her eyes and let her head fall back. "Your breasts are perfect," Robb groans, both hands on either of her now, squeezing and kneading. He strokes his thumbs over her nipples, the rough, calloused pad sending a spark of fire along her spine to her cunt. It’s half desire and half instinct, and Myrcella almost slips her hand between her legs to quell the ache, to give her cunt something to clench around. 

When Robb holds her breast to his mouth, licking his tongue over her nipple, Myrcella can't stop herself when her hand slides down over her belly. She works two fingers inside her cunt with a long low moan. Robb's mouth pops off her breast, and he stares at her, her hand between her legs and the hungry look of desire and surprise on his face is something Myrcella won’t soon forget. 

"Can I watch you?" Robb asks. For a moment Myrcella’s heart clutches, because she doesn’t want this to be like all the other times, not with Robb. “I want you to show me how you like it.” 

Myrcella settles back on her bed, and she lets her legs fall open, giving Robb just enough of a view of her cunt from beneath her dress to pique his interest. His hands slide along her calves, over her knees and down her thighs, pushing the thin Myrish lace up to her waist, resting his hands in the groove where her legs meet her hips. 

"Do you like watching?" Myrcella asks. The way his cock is pressing obscenely against his breeches gives her the answer. Robb nods, his mouth has fallen open slightly. 

“I think I’d like to touch you more,” he says. Myrcella can’t help but smile, her head tipping back slightly to rest against the headboard as Robb’s hands slide over to cover her cunt. He runs his thumbs along her center, parting her open and quickly dips his head to place his mouth on her cunt, pressing hot kisses over the slick, sensitive flesh. 

She has heard the other girls speak of it, but nothing could have prepared her for the reality of it. The way Robb’s lips and tongue are so soft and malleable over her wet flesh, and how the short hairs of his beard leave a pleasant tingling in their wake. For how many times Myrcella has brought herself to her peak while men watched, the moment she finds her release from Robb’s mouth, it has never been sweeter.

**Author's Note:**

> My first ASOIAF fic in over a year, and something I had been working on when I dropped off the face of the earth.


End file.
